


Even

by Fadefox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Post-DA2, not a Justice-positive fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-11 13:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16476080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadefox/pseuds/Fadefox
Summary: Post-DA2.A long way from Kirkwall, Fenris sees a ghost.





	Even

It's Fenris who spots him in the crowd.

Of course it is.

Perhaps Hawke is correct in suggesting he possesses "a sixth sense of sorts". Isabela always readily joins in when he does, suggesting other supernatural abilities Fenris might have. Can he "see through walls? No? Through _clothes_ , at least?" Merrill will giggle in amusement then, politely covering her mouth but keeping any comments to herself.

Of course they know better than that, all three of them. But no one is brave enough to call his paranoia by name, this constant feeling of eyes on him, of an enemy being about to strike, waiting for Fenris to let his guard down for one fateful instant. It's not going to happen. Not even now, so many years after he has slain Danarius that he can barely remember his face, years in which no other slavers even dared to look at him the wrong way - bloody news travel fast it seems, and far.  
His instincts keep him safe, as does the presence of his trusted companions.

And yet here he stands, rooted to the spot as the others saunter further down the road, occupied with a hot debate about Antivan dishes.  
Here he stands, every nerve ending suddenly pulsing with tension, every inch of him alert.

It can't be.

It's an abnormality, an outlier in the patterns of this world. A threat. A decade ago that would have made him spring into action, either to flee or to remove the problem without second thought - but the years, the _people_ , have changed him. For the better or for the worse, who knows.

Now, he cannot look away, cannot do anything at all and he's not sure he's breathing anymore. Hawke's voice seems to call him from a distance and it's strange, very strange, because he can see him from the corner of his eye yet cannot understand the words.

It's a small, mundane movement that makes the difference, the slightest tilt of a head. And then gold meets emerald and he crashes back into reality as if dropped from a height, stomach plummeting, ears ringing, vision blurring. The peacefulness he had almost settled into lately ripped away from straight under his feet, sending him reeling.

_Close_. Closer than Fenris thought and, just when he has finally managed to draw breath again, what little distance there was has already been swallowed up by shuffling steps.

Hawke is leaning into his field of view, waving a hand before his face, still talking.

"You are dead," Fenris says hoarsely, over the words Hawke speaks that he doesn't hear. He stares at the figure behind the Champion and barely registers how his voice sounds almost like _he_ is, too.

With a frown Hawke turns, following Fenris' gaze - and falls quiet.

He can’t do that. He's the one who does the talking. He's the one with the answers, with the faith, with the bravery.

He was the one with the knife.

The man's blond hair is shaggy underneath his hood, knotted ends falling loosely over his collarbone, and Fenris doesn't know why the state of his hair bothers him the most, why he can't even bring himself to fully acknowledge the sunken-in eyes, the loose, withered skin. That he looks the part of a dead man.

"There were... complications."

No.

There were not. There was the glint of a knife's blade and a limp body dropping to the floor, life running out of it, red over the cobblestone. So much _red_ that day, the light and the fires and the blood and the banners, it is burned into Fenris' memory like the lyrium into his skin. Just as real, too real, there was no mistaking.

"You died."

His mouth is dry as if he has been running for miles and he needs Hawke to handle this, Hawke will make sense of it, Hawke will lead the way, he always does.

But Hawke only stares, eyes wide, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Maybe it's the heat, the Antivan sun sweltering even in these late hours of the day, or maybe it's the same piercing cold that's painfully eating its way towards Fenris' heart.

Contemplating his words, the man across him blinks, once, twice, thrice, too rhythmical, and Fenris realises it's not just his presence that is abnormal, it is him, the way he holds himself perfectly straight despite his tattered looks, the way he speaks; calmly, stilted, face blank.

"A matter of semantics," the man finally declares as if that explains everything, "of how you define _me_."

And Hawke finally finds his voice again, utters only one word, one concept turned name, sounding almost awestruck, and it echoes back and forth in Fenris' mind like a shout caught in a bottomless well.

All sound is drowned out again when his blood rushes up into his head, heartbeat thundering in his ears, deafening. He doesn't hear and he doesn't see, doesn't see himself move, only sees _gold_ and _red_ and _red_ and _red_.

For a second he hesitates - it must be the gold. It holds onto him, so cruel in its calm, so powerful even now when he realises that it is no gold after all, merely amber, capturing what once was life in a perfect, still copy, a moment for eternity.

And he too is frozen again, can't even think, the noise in his ears subsiding just enough that he can hear the yelling, the _pleading_ of the Dalish and the pirate - next to him, in another world. Their hands are on him, _pulling_ , but all he can feel is the wilting organ in his hand: not even beating anymore but tethering together what is left of this body in another, artificial way. Its wrongness pulses along his markings like poison.

Then, the world tilts again.

Where an empty void had opened up inside of him earlier his emotions suddenly return full force. From one moment to the next he's shaking with rage, can barely keep himself from squeezing too hard - _not yet, not yet_. And the cold leaves, ice smouldered away by an inferno chasing through his veins, blood and lyrium alike.

"You have no right," he whispers, his throat raw.

"I have inhabited this body before-"

The ease, the composure of the voice, even now with slight irritation weaving its way into it, drives Fenris mad and his fingers close slightly, against his will, trembling, twitching, and he's _shouting_ so he can hear himself over the storm in his mind: "You got him killed and now you wear his skin like a trophy!"

"There is much work yet to be done for our cause. Anders would-"

"Anders would," Fenris shrieks, his own hysteric voice piercing in his ears, getting louder still because he needs to hear it, over the pounding in his head, over the others' screaming, needs _him_ , needs _everyone_ to hear it, " _never_ agree to becoming a mindless puppet!"

_Kill them all, my Little Wolf. Red, red, red._

_Some things_ , gold echoes in his mind, _are worse than death_.

And he hears nothing else, then. Sees nothing else.

For once, he does not pull. Just tightens his hold, more, more, _more_.

Like _it_ has, for so many years.

There is no need to make a show of it, no rush, no bloodlust.

When he retrieves his hand again it's clean, not a drop of cold blood spilled. No more _red_.

No more _gold_.

There is nothing but silence - around him, in his head, in his heart - as he catches the body collapsing forward into his arms.


End file.
